


for the birds who own nothing

by rorotea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dimilix Remix, M/M, Verdant Wind route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rorotea/pseuds/rorotea
Summary: — Felix has regrets.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33
Collections: Dimilix Remix 2020





	for the birds who own nothing

**Author's Note:**

> A remix of this [art/concept](https://twitter.com/vermilleons/status/1187227926804205568) by @vermilleons on twitter, on dima and felix on VW before gronder field. 
> 
> The title is from Mary Oliver's poem collection, Felicity.
> 
> Please heed the tags!

_“Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage._ _Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.”_

_\- Anne Carson_

That day is nothing momentous — nothing worth preserving for history. 

There are faces he knows and faces that know him. They look him in the eye and pain streaks across their mouths, racks their bodies. For a half-moment, their stances weaken, weapons falter, then the flames raging across the sky root their resolve in bloodsoaked dirt, and they remember 

_there is no turning back._

Imperial year 1186. 

On the 30th day of the Great Tree Moon, Gronder Field sees armies of three souls: crimson, blue, and golden. 

The dead spill only red. 

*

A native bird of Morfis perches in a tall spruce behind the royal palace in central Fhirdiad. Its tail feathers are the blue inside fire, its wings a blend of an impossible number of orange hues. The beak, shaped like a sickle, curves down the full length of the bird’s palm-sized body. 

Glenn posits that a rich noble’s pet flew loose, but nothing rational can curb Dimitri and Felix’s unexpected fascination. Faerghus, with its seemingly year-round chill, does not see creatures of bright colours or unusual shapes. 

To the two children — one a prince, one a noble — the bird is a wonder. 

(In a land far from home with none of its kind, the bird would later freeze under a mound of snow.)

In fighting for the clearest view, Dimitri accidentally leans too far back and loses his balance, then grabs Felix’s arm in a flailing attempt to steady himself. They both topple in a grunting heap, sending leaves up in the air. 

The bird rises, trailing fire, and disappears behind the palace walls.

Felix smacks the back of Dimitri’s head. 

Three days later, Felix finds Dimitri in the library perusing avian anthologies and collections. 

"What are you doing?" Felix whispers. The magic of birds has worn off Felix; he’d expected the same of Dimitri. 

Dimitri doesn’t look up. "Mother wanted me to describe the bird we saw, but I don’t know what it’s called," he replies, sifting between pages of detailed illustrations and text so tiny Felix has to squint. 

"Did you ask Glenn?" Felix asks.

"He didn't know."

A yawn tugs at Dimitri’s voice. Felix thinks he’s probably swallowing his boredom. Queen Patricia must have expressed casual interest to appease her son’s unusual excitement, setting off Dimitri's tendency to leap ten feet high at any opportunity to brighten his mother’s face and see her smile at him. 

Humming in thought, Felix silently slides down the bench beside the prince, and rests his head on the table to watch the candlelight dance across Dimitri's face. 

“I’ll keep you company,” Felix says, then corrects, drawing out each word, “I can… _help_ … if you want.” 

Felix doesn’t really want to help. 

The corners of Dimitri’s mouth twitch. “We both know you don’t really want to help.”

They laugh. 

Within the hour, both boys are fast asleep. It is Glenn who later rescues the books from drool, and carries the children to a warm bed. 

*

There’s only one thing worse than weeding duty, and it's weeding duty with Dimitri. _Even_ worse is the fact that they are alone in the courtyard. Most of the students have gone to frolic around town before their day off, and the stragglers have retired to their dorms for late afternoon naps. 

“Good afternoon, Felix.” Dimitri smiles. It’s an awful smile. 

Felix ignores him, bites the vitriol on his tongue. He seizes an empty straw bag and hurls it over his shoulder. 

Dimitri catches it without a word, the vacant smile sliding off his face, and crouches a few paces away from Felix to start weeding. 

The sun beats down on their backs like hot steel. 

Unfortunately, neither of them has an eye for plants, despite Professor Manuela’s repeated guidance on what counts as a weed and what may look like a weed but does _not really_ count as a weed. It's all too much for Felix and Dimitri, who would rather hack at thorn bushes with weapons. 

During Manuela's test, Felix easily distinguishes valuable or innocuous herbs from weedy ones with ease. But when he’s left alone with the task several days later, the knowledge has unwittingly slipped out of his mind, deemed useless.

And so, Felix rips out clumps that look _marginally_ different from regular grass, his violent speed spurred on by Dimitri’s slow and methodical hand-picking behind him. 

Felix looks back occasionally to check on Dimitri’s bag of weeds. It’s barely half-full — which is still impressive given that Dimitri’s speed is stunted by an idiotic need to do a thorough job. 

By the third time Felix looks back, Dimitri has shuffled closer, his shadow falling a hair’s breadth from Felix’s. Sweat glistens on his brow, matting pieces of hair against it. 

Dimitri’s face is clear, focused. It’s honest. It's the look of a child fiercely ruminating on a task beyond his capability. No practiced smiles. No contorted mask to hide himself.

Dimitri doesn’t notice Felix’s attention — nor the trembling around Felix’s eyes. His weight shifts to the right, and he casually shrugs away the hem of his blue cape from hindering his sight. 

Felix holds his breath. The sun seems to soak right through Dimitri’s hair. It glows, mesmerising. 

Blue and fiery gold are colours that stir a memory loose — a precious, inconsequential one — and for a moment, Dimitri is young again, trying desperately to name a bird he would never see again. For a moment, the world has yet to break him.

The spell breaks as Felix makes the mistake of moving, rustling grass under his boots. In a rush, Dimitri wipes sweat from his upper lip and brow. Tilts his head in a nauseatingly innocuous manner, and finally ventures a small smile. “Felix? What is it?”

“...Hurry up. I don’t want to be here all night,” is the safest response Felix can manage. He tries to sound annoyed — which is not at all challenging — but Dimitri's brows flicker, as if sensing the slightest hint of whatever emotion it is that Felix wants desperately to keep buried, to keep safe. 

*

The room is pitch black, curtains drawn to the full moon. The bed, fitted with clean white sheets, is unoccupied. 

Still as a corpse, Dimitri is hunched and festering in the corner of the room. Felix has avoided this particular room for all the days Dimitri has been in it. It’s not the fetid stench of rotting food or the creeping silence that repulses Felix. That makes his stomach roil with futile anger. 

It’s Dimitri. Always Dimitri. 

“You have to eat,” Felix parrots his father, with impressive restraint. He’d rather hurl the tray out the window, but Rodrigue has chewed him out enough for his quips and general disrespect towards Dimitri. 

Not expecting Dimitri to grace him with any form of human response, Felix prepares to slam the tray on the floor. 

“Starve for all I care,” Felix gets in a quip under his breath and turns to leave. 

But a single blue eye, like the tip of an icicle aimed at his skull, freezes him in place. 

In that second, Felix realises two things. 

The first is that Dimitri hasn’t looked at him in nearly five years. 

The second is that he doesn’t want Dimitri to look away. 

“Felix?”

A shock courses through him. It’s nearly unbearable. 

Felix waited so long for Dimitri to speak to him. But now, he wonders what there is to say when they’ve lived more years as strangers than as friends. 

“Thank you… Felix.” 

The words come out painfully awkward. 

Saying nothing, Felix rushes out and slams the doors shut behind him. 

*

His father’s eyes had misted over when the news arrived that Dimitri was alive. Even through Dimitri’s alleged execution and Faerghus crumbling before his eyes, Rodrigue remained steadfast against the Empire’s endless invasions. 

He expended and distributed as many resources as he could, braved more battles than any heart could carry, all with the word _honour_ on his lips and Dimitri in his heart. 

At Rodrigue’s side, unwavering, stood his son. Felix carried out his father’s orders dutifully — if only because they lined up with his own ideas.

And then, Dimitri returned to them, carrying hope and covered in aged blood. 

Rodrigue received the prince with sympathy and open arms. 

Felix reacted in anger. 

From then one, father and son were, once again, at odds. 

*

It is two days later, on the eve of the Kingdom’s first organised attack on the Empire with Dimitri at their helm. 

The Kingdom's forces are in shambles. 

A week ago, the majority of the Kingdom’s generals had spoken out against the ambush at Gronder Field. It had been a simple argument. When the Empire and Alliance clashed, Edelgard’s forces would inevitably suffer. The Kingdom army, riddled with holes and disarray, should bide its time.

To them, Dimitri had laughed a bitter thing. “I will go, with or without an army.” 

In the end, the Kingdom’s soldiers decided that if they were to fall, they would fall with their leader. 

Felix had quietly left the meeting. It made him sick, how easily the soldiers resigned to dying for a man like Dimitri. How Felix secretly found his heart resigning alongside them. 

It’s now past midnight. The encampment is silent. A dim light flickers from Rodrigue’s tent. 

Standing stock still, Felix resolves himself. He reorients, walks over to the largest tent, and forces his way inside. There, Dimitri stares up at him with surprise so innocent it makes Felix recoil. 

“What —” Dimitri starts to ask. Felix almost doesn’t hear him over the blood pounding against his ears. 

“Quiet,” Felix replies, rough and urgent. He sinks to his knees, drops his hands on Dimitri’s shoulders. 

There’s a chill in the night breeze. Dimitri’s mouth opens. 

“Don’t…” Felix tries, and closes his eyes. “Don’t say anything. Please.” 

Something warm strokes his face. Felix’s eyelids squeeze tighter.

“I will not speak, then,” Dimitri half-whispers, fingers tracing a path to Felix’s chin. 

“You just did,” Felix can’t help but retort. Then he sighs, softening.

Felix opens his eyes, catches Dimitri’s wrist. Slowly interlaces their fingers. 

Calm washes over him almost immediately. And he sees that Dimitri is not at all questioning, not at all surprised. When minutes pass and the heat between fingers isn’t enough, their bodies slot together in an embrace. 

They breathe each other in, searching for all the time lost and all the time to be lost. Felix draws Dimitri’s scars to memory, feeling between crevices of bone with his hands and lips. 

It’s Dimitri who tugs Felix by the neck and kisses him first. 

There’s no sound, no pleasure. Only the shadow cast by the rising sun, faint ghosts, and a grounding sorrow. 

Every apology Felix carried in his heart is given without words. Every shred of guilt on Dimitri’s shoulders is allayed when Felix smooths his countless scars. 

*

The most skilled swordmaster among the Kingdom’s forces marches through the battlefield alone, sword in each hand, dispersing enemy battalions like clouds of smoke. He never strays far from Dimitri. 

The battle changes tides when Lysithea lands a nasty attack on Bernadetta, positioned upon the central hill. The magic leaves Bernadetta’s arm strewn with bloody boils and her eyes red with pain. Still, Bernadetta stands stubborn; she looses arrows left and right at dizzying speed to defend her location. But the impact of injury is there, stuttering the trajectory of her attacks.

It is then that Ingrid flies over the hill, back arched upon her pegasus, and hurls a javelin. It strikes true, right through Bernadetta’s throat. Blood seeps out of her mouth, open from shock, and she falls. Within the second, Edelgard’s voice ripples through the Empire’s forces, and the hill goes up in flames.

Ingrid retreats in time, but others are not as quick to react. 

The fire quickly swallows Bernadetta’s corpse, erases her loss. As Felix watches on, the memory of carrying her lost pouch in his pockets for weeks washes over him.

It’s achingly vivid. Then he lets it go. He must.

South of the hill, Dimitri mows down enemies with ruthless force, circumventing the flames to reach Edelgard. Felix races after him, never far behind, but never too close. 

With Claude's forces also closing in — Edelgard makes a calculated decision. 

She deploys Petra to intercept a thorn in the Empire's side - to face Felix. The Brigid princess advances like a shadow.

With her battalion decimated, Petra approaches Felix alone, sword in hand. 

Frenzied by Edelgard’s proximity, Dimitri doesn’t take note - doesn't turn back. By the time Petra’s blade swings down to meet Felix, Dimitri is well out of his sight, behind smoke and death. 

Panic rises, that Felix may never see Dimitri again. He has no time to process it, nor fall back on the memory of Dimitri's scent — because Petra's strikes come rapidly. And because a slew of masked mages approaches from behind her, cloaks shuffling over corpses like maggots. 

The two exchange over fifty quick blows before Petra pries one of Felix’s swords out of his grip.

Her face is stone-cold, bearing no trace of recognition, nor attachment. 

Then, two things happen in close succession. The first is a nightmarish howl, so fierce it stuns nearly every living soldier into inaction. It's Dimitri, screaming Edelgard's name. 

The second is a death, a sword buried cleanly in Felix's chest. _Nearly_ everyone was distracted by Dimitri, but not Petra.

"Felix! _No_!" Felix hears Ingrid's cry. Then Ashe's. 

Watching the blood seep from his wound, Felix thinks dimly: Dimitri hasn't fallen yet. 

And he — 

He doesn't want to fall here either. Not like this. 

Not yet. 

The world fades in. The world fades out.

His eyes stay open, searching. 


End file.
